


the discovery of yuuri (the japanese one, not the emo one)

by thankyouforexisting



Category: Yuri!!! on Ice (Anime)
Genre: First Kiss, Fluff, M/M, Podfic Available, Romance, Schmoop, This was written rlly early on pls dont hate me, Victor POV, im trash
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-10-10
Updated: 2016-10-10
Packaged: 2018-08-21 18:42:42
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,996
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/8256341
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/thankyouforexisting/pseuds/thankyouforexisting
Summary: Yuuri sees him standing there, buck-naked, and promptly faints, swooning like a fairytale maiden.After Victor’s rushed him to his mother, who doesn’t bat an eyelash at the fact that he’s holding her unconscious son whilst only wearing a towel, he eventually wakes up, and yet, Victor still feels like he’s on uneven ground, ready to tumble.“What are you doing here?” Yuuri croaks, his blanket held up to cover the lower half of his face, making his voice sound muffled and small, eyes wide and dark. He looks…He looks ridiculously cute, actually.// Victor likes the ice under his feet, and he likes the feel of his dog's fur when he's patting him, and he likes Yuuri Katsuki.





	

**Author's Note:**

  * Translation into Русский available: [Неизвестные переменные](https://archiveofourown.org/works/8306905) by [NancyMuck](https://archiveofourown.org/users/NancyMuck/pseuds/NancyMuck)



> can you hear  
> my heart beat  
> it's the sound of anime trash  
> i'm in gay figure skating hell sa v e me  
> 

There’s nothing that unsettles Victor more than unknown variables.

 

People generally assume that athletes (and especially athletes that are related to art, because prejudice is _that_ nice) aren’t smart, that they give up their whole life to their profession, and become a sports-only focused mind, leaving everything else behind. They usually see Victor as nothing more than a pretty face with some flexibility and sparkling pink suits that catch their attention when he’s moving around the rink.

 

They say words like “ _pretty_ ” or “ _nice, I guess_ ” or even “ _he looks kinda...you know._ ”

 

But Victor studied,he went to college _while_ he skated professionally, and finished his Mathematics degree, graduating and hurrying to the next figure skating competition in the same day, quickly packing his diploma and then running to catch a plane.

 

He’s always been fascinated by numbers, almost as much as he’s been captivated by the feeling of his feet sliding on the ice, hearing the way the blades scratch and _dig_ into its surface, breaking and tearing apart but never managing to beat it. Victor’s fueled by passion and instinct, of course, but his movements and quads have all been timed, and he follows a personal formula for his choreographies, one that his first coach took a look at and requested a transfer.

 

He hates not knowing things. He absolutely cannot _stand_ when people don’t react the way they’re supposed to, they way they’re _meant_ to. He winks, and the crowd goes wild. He lands his quads, and the audience claps, enthusiastic. Victor comes home to his parents, and they all very cheerfully pretend that he isn’t a flamboyant gay figure skater, and ask him when he’s going to marry a nice girl.

 

They never ask about his trophies.

 

And the moment that he sees that _boy_ (Asian, probably Japanese, but Victor can’t be sure, still despairs over the fact that he couldn’t memorize all the skaters’ names before he came to the Grand Prix, like he usually does, because charisma is his greatest weapon), he can see he’s a fan. The boy looks like they all do, awed and cowed and slightly terrified, his dark eyes wide in realization. Victor plasters on his usual smile, leans just 30º to the right, and says, “A commemorative photo?” _Pause for effect_. “Sure.”

 

But the boy...he doesn’t blush and look away and then shyly step forward, as is the norm. The boy startles, and looks like someone just killed his puppy and then decided to declare communism in Japa. His lips quiver and his shoulders shake minutely, unsteady, and then he sets his lips in a firm line and walks away, never looking back, grip on his suitcase white-knuckled and so tight it must hurt.

 

Victor’s frozen.

 

He knows the coach is saying something, probably some commentary about their performance that is actually useful and will help him in the future, if he doesn’t retire immediately, but he’s not listening. He’s aware that his face has probably dropped, his smile washed away, and he must look dejected, but he can’t quite assimilate what just happened. He lets his arm fall to his side.

 

What’s wrong with the boy? Does he...not like Victor?

 

But no. He clearly was a fan, if nothing else. Victor knows how fans look. He’s used to identifying them.

 

 _You thought you knew how fans reacted_ , a tiny voice in his mind says, and he shuts it down before he can think about it more. No. This boy has no impact on his life, if he doesn’t know the skater’s name already, and torturing himself about it will only bring more anxiety to his trip home.

 

Victor lets his eyes flutter shut, swallowing hard.

 

…

 

It’s him.

 

It’s the boy ( _Yuuri Katsuki_ ) and he’s skating Victor’s program.

 

And it’s _absolutely mesmerizing_.

 

Yuuri Katsuki moves like he could win any competition in the world, fluid and fast, with a unique step that makes him stand out. He’s simply _different_ , his own style resonating in every slide of the blades against the hard, unrelenting ice. His eyes are closed for a great deal of the program, and it almost seems like he’s known it by heart longer than Victor himself. He looks...reverent.

 

But...he refused the picture. And yet...he looks like he’s soaking up Victor’s essence, bathing in it, flowing and being consumed by it.

 

Victor just doesn’t know what’s up with Yuuri. He’s confused and maybe a little curious, too. He’s _intrigued_ , for god’s sake. He wants to learn Japanese, to ask him what the heck the kid is doing. Hell, maybe he doesn’t know any English, and that’s why he was so miserable at the Grand Prix.

 

After a few minutes, he realizes he’s biting his lip so hard it’s started to bleed.

 

Victor books a one-way ticket to Japan, pets his dog, and starts packing.

 

…

 

Yuuri sees him standing there, buck-naked and promptly faints, swooning like a fairytale maiden.

 

After Victor’s rushed him to his mother, who doesn’t bat an eyelash at the fact that he’s holding her unconscious son whilst only wearing a towel, he eventually wakes up, and Victor still feels like he’s on uneven ground.

 

“What are you doing here?” Yuuri croaks, blanket held up to cover the lower half of his face, making his voice sound muffled and small. He looks…

 

He looks ridiculously cute, actually, and that makes Victor pause, for a second, which only makes Yuuri bite his lip harder and clutch at his blanket, cheeks red. He’d babbled in broken English about the posters in his room for minutes when Victor walked in, trying to hide them and urging him to leave the room, eyes flickering all over the place, voice way too high for it to be anything but humiliation in his tone. But Victor is only just realizing that his effusive “it’s fine, don’t worry about it” has less to do with the fact that it’s flattering and more to do with that he...he likes that Yuuri admires him.

 

Might like it a little too much.

 

“I want to coach you, Yuuri,” he says, a beat too late, “I saw your video.”

 

Yuuri starts to babble again, in ridiculously fast Japanese, and then breaks off when he realizes Victor’s just looking at him, confused, sitting on the edge of the bed and waiting for him to translate.

 

“ _Ehtoh_ ,” Yuuri mumbles, looking down, “I’m s-sorry. The video is very embarrassing. You mustn’t see it.”

 

“I think it’s beautiful,” Victor says, and it’s true.

 

Yuuri blushes like a tomato, not meeting his eyes and holding the blanket even higher, hiding almost everything except his eyes. “Ah.”

 

“Would you let me coach you, Yuuri?”

 

Silence, for a few seconds.

 

Then:

 

“O-okay,” Yuuri says, and he sounds cautiously optimistic.

 

…

 

Yuri Plisetsky comes to Hasetsu, conjures up a shitstorm and bullies Yuuri until he’s satisfied, hovering over him despite their difference in height. Yuuri shrinks as much as he can, covering his hands with his sleeves and stammering out replies in his heavily accented (but surprisingly fluid, after a few days shyly answering Victor’s prodding and nagging) English, and it makes something in Victor’s heart ache.

 

He’s here to figure Yuuri out. To know what makes him tick and to find out why he feels conflicted, why Yuuri shies away from him even though he’s clearly obsessed with Victor. He wants to know why Yuuri failed so spectacularly at the Grand Prix, when he’s so obviously talented and so dedicated to being the best skater he can be. He _needs_ to know how the hell Yuuri manages to smile at him, every so often, eyes sparkling and glasses sliding down the bridge of his nose, his hair a mess, and just say, softly but sincerely, “Arigato, Victor.”

 

“You need to leave, Yuri,” he tells the younger kid sternly, when they’re alone.

 

“Why?” he kicks a pebble with his foot, hands stuck inside his pockets, “I’ve got a right to go wherever I want to. Coach doesn’t _own_ me.”

 

“Your parents might worry, Yuri,” Victor says, a little less aggressively, and Yuri flinches like he’s been slapped.

 

“Stop it, Nikiforov,” he growls, glaring, “You promised to coach me, remember?  Why are you in _Japan_?”

 

“Because…” he bites his lip, threading his fingers together, unsure and more than a little scared of  the answer himself, “Because I saw him skate, and I saw him off the ice.”

 

“What does that even _mean_?”

 

Victor laughs. He wishes he could know.

 

In the end, Yuri doesn’t leave. Apparently, he and Yuuri have a heart-to-heart, and Plisetsky starts to hang around Yuuri, still grumpy and a general affronted kid, but he listens to Yuuri a bit, from time to time, and smiles, a little, when the other boy squeaks the moment he sees Victor’s poodle, and then completely denies it.

 

…

 

Yuuri doesn’t _just_ skate.

 

Yuuri _dances_ on the ice, letting it all go and hearing only the music, his arms flowing like waves, his jumps making him seem like a fairy, like he’s missing wings. Yuuri smiles when he’s skating, just the curl of his lips, and his chest moves up and down, strained, but he never lets up, every single movement perfected until it’s flawless.

 

And Victor watches, and it takes his breath away.

 

…

 

“Why didn’t you take a picture with me, Yuuri?” Victor asks, after weeks of training regimen and diets and telling Plisetsky to go wait outside when they’re practicing a special program, much to the teenager’s displeasure (“It’s not like I’m not going to win, anyway.” “Please, Yuri, wait outside.” “...Fine.”).

 

Yuuri freezes up, hand in mid-air, half-way up to part his hair, and he looks at him, panicked, “I-uhm- I don’t.”

 

“I really want a picture with you, Yuuri,” Victor confesses, and takes a step forward, making Yuuri get even more alarmed and step back, his skates slipping back to the rink, making him trip and -

 

Victor catches him, taking care to move his legs onto the ice to avoid getting cut, by the waist, gentle, and looks down at Yuuri, eyes wide and cheeks flushed, sweaty from their practice, his nose pink from the cold and his breath coming out in soft pants.

 

Victor closes his eyes, and leans in.

 

…

 

“I understand now, the posters,” Victor teases, tracing their program on Yuuri’s back with his fingertips, letting him lean against him, so _tiny_ , “If you want me to sign them -”

 

“Don’t be rude,” Yuuri mumbles, punching his chest weakly, “You know you are handsome. It’s a fact.”

 

Victor, to his utter horror, finds himself flushing, and quickly kisses Yuuri before he can notice. He won’t let his suave façade drop _now_ , when he actually cares. Fortunately, he thinks with a smirk when he hears Yuuri let out a soft whimper, he’s pretty sure he doesn’t mind.

 

…

 

Victor doesn’t know much about Yuuri, yet.

 

He knows he took his dog’s loss harder than most people have taken their family member’s, and that he named it after Victor (which he admitted after cuddling in bed for an hour, red-cheeked and tired and loose-limbed in Victor’s arms); he knows that he can’t cope in highly stressful situations, and that he calls Victor for support, breath hitching; he knows that Yuuri hates attention, but will blush and and ask for more if Victor’s the one showering him in it.

 

He doesn’t know everything about Yuuri, doesn’t know if he’s going to stay with Victor for the long run, or if he wants to skate until he’s thirty, or if he wants to stay at the onsen.

 

But he knows enough, can figure out the rest on his own, find the answer to his equation and solve his problem.

 

“Don’t think too much, Victor,” Yuuri whispers, from his side of the bed, stretching out one arm to offer his hand, eyes hooded and almost shut, just a glint shining in the dark, “Come here.”

 

And Victor does.

  


**Author's Note:**

> Hope you liked! Comments and kudos are appreciated, as always :3 Find me on tumblr (@i-read-good-books) if you want to scream about these two.

**Works inspired by this one:**

  * [[Podfic] the discovery of yuuri (the japanese one, not the emo one)](https://archiveofourown.org/works/9168406) by [fire_juggler](https://archiveofourown.org/users/fire_juggler/pseuds/fire_juggler)




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